The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle
by BloodiedFox
Summary: Saving the galaxy is all well and good, but it doesn't pay the bills. In need of cash, Star-Lord convinces the team to help him in a heist targeting a powerful crime boss, but is there more to his choice of target than he's letting on?
1. And bad ideas, but ideas nonetheless

Peter Quill looked around expectantly, a broad smile of sunny optimism upon his face. He liked to think of himself as a positive person, someone who could make the best of any given situation and turn it to his advantage. The fact that his smile did not flicker for an instant as he surveyed the blank faces of his teammates amidst the awkward silence that was following his pitch was, he felt, a testament to this 'glass half full' attitude. Maybe they just needed a few moments to absorb the brilliance of his idea? 

After a few more painful seconds, it was Gamora who spoke, mercy-killing the silence. 

"That is the worst idea I have ever heard." 

Quill's smile did falter at that. Ego somewhat dented, he looked around for some support. 

"C'mon, it's not that bad..." 

His gaze fell on Rocket, who scratched an ear while giving him a not entirely unsympathetic look of discomfort. 

"She's got a point, Quill. It ain't exactly the most attractive option." 

Quill opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by a high pitched little voice from below the level of the table 

"I am Groot!" 

Rocket gave an exasperated sigh and made a shooing motion at the walking talking tree that had apparently snuck up on them. Once Groot had loomed over them all, but he currently stood no taller than the raccoon, recovering from being reduced to a pile of twigs in the process of saving them all. 

"You're supposed to be in your greenhouse! How you gonna get tall again if you ain't gonna rest up?" 

"I am Groot!" 

The tree (although really, Quill thought, shrub would be a more accurate term for now) scowled in an adorably tiny approximation of annoyance and folded his arms, tapping a foot freshly coated in the soil of his pot. Rocket pinched the bridge of his muzzle in frustration. 

"Oh for the love of... Fine! Just don't come crying to me when your leaves don't fricking sprout back right!" 

Grumpily, Rocket shifted down the two piled ammo crates that served as his chair, allowing Groot the space to pull himself up. Once at table level, the tree placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers in his best approximation of serious business manner. 

"I am... Groot." 

"Ha!" Rocket barked a short laugh "At least we agree it's a stupid idea." 

"Oh come on! He wasn't even in the room when I said it!" Quill protested. 

"I am Groot." 

"Vibrations through the metal flooring and up into his roots. Seriously, he hears things even better than I do." 

"He doesn't even have any ears!" 

"So?" queried Rocket, with the air of someone addressing a complete idiot. "You don't got a tail, and yet you somehow manage to not constantly fall on your ass." 

Quill scowled at his furry compatriot, another silence descending, this time more tense than awkward. It was then that Drax spoke up for the first time. 

"I have a question." 

Thankful for interruption, Quill turned to look at the hulking tattooed warrior, whose brows were knitted in an expression of deep thought. 

"Yes Drax?" Quill tried to hide the hope in his voice. Given the idea offered the possibility of a decent fight, surely Drax would be in favour of it. The question would simply be regarding some tactical issue... 

"Why is it called a greenhouse when it is transparent?" 

...that or his literal-mindedness had gotten stuck on the edge of someone's sentence yet again. Quill groaned, burying his face in his hands, trying to ignore Rocket's muffled sniggering. Gamora took it upon herself to try and steer the conversation back on course. 

"Because it contains plants, Drax, which generally tend to be green." The green-skinned assassin felt some pride at the fact she'd managed to say that with a straight face. 

"Ah. That makes sense. Thank you." Drax nodded, absorbing this information as though it were something truly profound. Quill removed his head from his hands, having now composed himself enough to trust that he wouldn't simply start screaming in frustration. 

"And my idea?" 

"I had dismissed that already. I do not see its usefulness." Drax replied offhandedly. 

"GAH!" In fairness, Quill assured himself, that was less a scream of frustration and more a yelp. He ran a hand back through his hair, looking around at his nonplussed companions. "Sorry; I just don't get why you guys see this as such a bad idea?" 

"Probably because the sum total of your idea was, to use your exact words, 'Guys, we're going to raid the central repository of Aarzan the Facilitator'." Gamora answered, topping her previous success in straight-facedness by keeping her tone even. 

"Well obviously that was just the opening pitch." Quill scoffed "I have a plan for this." 

He looked out at four sets of disbelieving eyes 

"No, I'm serious! A 100% fully formed, breathing, walking, talking, plan. I've got maps and diagrams and everything!" 

"Alright, alright." interjected Rocket, dismissing the Terran's protestations with a wave of a paw "Supposing you actually do have a plan, and supposing that it actually isn't completely idiotic, why the crap would we want to mess with the most well-connected crime boss in the whole sector!?" 

"Because for one thing, we're pretty much broke." Quill paused for a moment to let that sink in "Seriously, anyone sitting on a stack of units that they didn't think to mention until now? No?" He looked about as no-one raised their hands. "Exactly. Saving the galaxy didn't do wonders for our pockets. The Nova Corps fixed up The Milano and gave her a full tank of gas but that was it. As grateful as everyone is, they aren't showering us in gifts..." 

"I am Groot." 

"Except for the year's supply of fertiliser from the forestry department for Groot." Quill acknowledged "Even with clean criminal records we're considered too dirty for legit work and the underworld thinks we're too clean. No-one's offering us jobs." 

"There was that studio that wanted you for a film..." said Rocket, trying, and failing, to disguise a smirk. 

Quill looked at him narrowly. "Yes, a porn film. With a Laskovarian." 

"You have lain with a Laskovarian." Drax pointed out. 

"Once! To get information! Which half the universe now knows because you told them in an INN interview!" Quill complained loudly. 

"I felt it highlighted your bravery." Drax replied, unperturbed. 

"My point" Quill sighed, attempting to stop the conversation derailing completely "is that we need to make money, and fast. Our skill sets aren't exactly set up for something legal, so why not be criminal to the criminals? We rob the rich to give to the poor; in this case us." 

"You almost managed to make that sound altruistic." Gamora commented, raising an eyebrow. 

"Thank you." Quill treated her to one of his infuriatingly charming smiles. 

"I hate to break up the love in," Rocket said, in a tone that made a liar of him "but that still doesn't explain why Aarzan specifically? Since, again, most powerful criminal in the fricking sector!" 

"Why not start at the top?" Quill turned the full force of the smile on Rocket "I mean, after stopping Ronan, anything less should be a cake walk." 

"You do not walk on cake." Drax stated, brow furrowing "It is not firm enough and would be rendered inedible." 

"Metaphor!" Quill inwardly marvelled at just how much like second nature saying that had become ever since he'd met Drax. "It means it'll be easy. Anyway, it also helps that I've been planning this since before we met. Been my passion project." 

"Why?" queried Gamora, watching him carefully. 

"Figured it'd be an impressive enough score to earn me some bonus points with Yondu." Quill replied offhandedly. A little too offhandedly for Gamora's taste. She said nothing, however. 

"So, you guys want to hear the plan?" Quill looked around once again. Hearing no further objections, he fired up the holographic display and began...


	2. Now I'm down in it

Solomon was not happy.

To be fair, it was rare that Solomon was ever particularly happy. Life had been unfair, he felt, with regards to delivery on his expectations. When he had begun a life of crime, nudged along by the right combination of drugs, alcohol and the inherently unfair distribution of wealth (namely the fact that none of it belonged to him), he had had ideas of making a name as an outlaw, engaging in dashing escapades a-plenty, accumulating a fortune and wooing ladies of species uncounted. Instead, he was a guard for some criminal's pile of junk. A guard on night shift, even! Oh sure, the pay wasn't bad, especially considering his job consisted of simply monitoring the automated defences and checking cameras, but the sheer ignominy of it stuck in his craw. He was better than this, damn it!

That, however, only explained the default level of his unhappiness. This current peak of annoyance came down to the fact that some idiot had arranged for a delivery at night. Night deliveries were generally frowned upon, as the automated intake systems were rested overnight, which meant the hiring of manual labour was required. The boss was not a fan of manual labour; something about it being a security risk. Still, in times of urgency exceptions were made. That would have been annoying enough, but Solomon's ire had been raised further still as some buffoon on day shift had screwed up. No record had been made on the system of this scheduled delivery, no workers brought in to handle the cargo. He had half a mind to simply refuse to accept the delivery, but the courier had shown all the proper paperwork and identification, as well as making sure to emphasise how urgently this was required by the client.

So, begrudgingly, Solomon had taken in the cargo, which thankfully consisted of only of one crate, about the size of a Kree. He run the scans, confirming no explosives, tech, or living beings. The whole contents read as a big mass of organic matter, which made sense since the paperwork stated it was fertiliser. Why fertiliser would be urgent was completely beyond Solomon, but however angry he was, he was not about to question the boss' business decisions. So he had fumed quietly and escorted the courier as he'd wheeled the crate to the designated holding area, the wretched man wittering on the entire time, then escorted him back to his ship, some crappy little cargo shuttle that looked older than either of them. Still, at least Solomon had been able to take the edge off his distemper by telling the courier as he departed that his moustache looked stupid. The man had looked deeply wounded by that, but Solomon considered it fair retribution for being the deliverer of irritation, both with the cargo and by having one of those faces that just seemed irritatingly familiar.

As Solomon sank back into the chair in the security office, grumbling sourly to himself, he tried to place that face for a moment, before dismissing the idea. He'd remember if he'd met someone with a moustache that stupid looking before...

* * *

The cargo holding area was not silent. True silence, after all, is rare. There was the distant whir and growl of security, the faint dripping of a leaky vapour condenser that no-one seemed to care enough about to fix. These would have been familiar sounds to anyone used to the place at night. Now there was a new one: the slow, painful creak of metal as the freshly delivered crate's lid began to lift away. It did so evenly, and only those looking closely would realise why. Small wooden tendrils had emerged on all sides and pushed upwards with a glacial strength. Once content it was fully unsealed, the tendrils slid the lid away, easing it to the floor with only the quietest of ~clangs~, before retreating into the brown muck that filled the crate. Nothing moved further for a few moments, before a small head poked up, looking all around. Cautiously, the rest of its body emerged as it climbed out from the crate, peering this way and that. Apparently content, it added a new noise to the surroundings:

"I am Groot."

Another shape scurried out from the crate, discarding breathing apparatus with a clatter before doubling over and retching.

"I am Groot?"

Rocket finished gagging and shook himself in a vain attempt to remove the worst of the clinging muck "Oh yeah, I'm just great. Hell, ain't nothing like spending quality time submerged in a box of crap!"

"I... am Groot?"

Rocket waved a hand at the tree dismissively. "No, I didn't have an episode. I told you, I'm fine, or at least I will be after I have a shower, burn these clothes and kick Quill in the balls a few dozen times for coming up with this plan..."

Rocket looked about, taking a moment to orientate himself, overlaying the floor plans Quill had shown them with what he was standing in. Relative to position, the security hub would be...

There was a sudden high pitched electric whine and two noises that could almost be called barks, were it not for the metallic reverberation to them. These were rapidly followed by the sound of metal on metal, small and frequent, closing in.

"Shit, these counter measures are fast! You ready, Groot?" Rocket couldn't help but grin, adrenaline starting to kick in. Breaking out was his speciality. Breaking in? Well, that was a fun new challenge...

"I am Groot!" The tree began to sprout fresh shoots, giving his own dopey smile as his companion darted to a nearby stack of cargo and began to climb.

* * *

Solomon was in the middle of composing his thoughts for his complaints tomorrow regarding this whole screw up regarding a night delivery (though to the untrained eye, said composing might look strangely like having a nap) when a bleep from the internal security console drew his attention. Looking up, he caught the last flash from the light above the CS patrol monitors before it went dark again. He grunted, shifting in his seat. Nothing too shocking there. CS patrol was primarily tasked with dealing with any vermin that might emerge in the dark. This had amazed Solomon at first, as he'd figured a hollowed out asteroid would have no such problem. Yet apparently the odd animal hitch-hiker would stay behind after the cargo moved on and find abandoned corners in which to breed. Emphasis on the odd.

Curiosity piqued enough to overcome compiling recriminations (or drowsiness), Solomon leaned forward to inspect the monitors showing the patrol's POV feeds. He was disappointed to see no visible carnage. Usually the CS units made quite a spectacular mess, made all the more enjoyable by the fact clearing it up wasn't his responsibility. There was something else off though, and it took Solomon a few moments to understand what it was. CS patrols stuck to rigid, unchanging routes. After all, they dealt with creatures too dim to handle pattern recognition. The views on the monitor were not part of the patrol route. Come to think of it, they were coming closer and closer to...

It was the sound of the metallic feet hammering up the stairs that finally spurred Solomon into realising what was happening. He leapt frantically from his seat and dived for the door control, attempting to seal himself inside the control room. For one beautiful moment, as his hand slapped the button and the door began to whoosh down, he thought he had succeeded. But as he crashed to the floor, two blurs of motion slide under the closing door, and as it clanged shut, he found himself with a worm's eye view of one of the strangest and most terrifying sights he'd ever beheld.

The CS units themselves were bad enough. All sleek metal and wickedly sharp teeth, they were fearful approximations of canines, fast enough on their four feet to bear down any prey. And then there were their... riders? One was an amalgamation of man and tree, seemingly now rooted into the unit it clung to the underside of, beaming at him with a smile of innocent joy. The other rider also smiled, but there was nothing innocent about it. Bundles of wires clutched in each of his tiny hands, beady little eyes fixing Solomon with a piercing glare, made all the worse by the awful smell that emanated from him.

Frozen in sheer panic, Solomon could do nothing as the smelly one spoke:

"Hi. My friend and I need to ask you a few questions, starting with where's the fricking shower!?"

* * *

"Do you have to keep wearing that ridiculous moustache?" asked Gamora, eyeing Quill dubiously from co-pilot's chair.

"You're just jealous you don't have one." Quill smirked, leaning back in pilot's seat, radiating in the glow of the brilliance of his disguise. After making the drop, he'd brought the decrepit cargo shuttle they'd 'liberated' from a junker's yard back to the Milano, mag-locking it to the hull. Now they simply had to wait, hidden from sensor view behind a suitably large part of asteroid field debris, waiting for communication to tell them stage one was complete.

"I was not aware Terrans could force their hair to grow at such a rate." rumbled Drax from the chair behind Quill "Or is this another ability your father has passed on to you, my friend?"

Gamora groaned "He didn't grow it, he assembled it from..." she trailed off, fingers rubbing her temple. "I'm going to regret asking this, but where did you get the... materials for that abomination?"

Quill shrugged "Raided the shower drain, dried the clogs off, added a little glue, boom! One perfect disguise."

"You do realise most of that is probably made of Rocket's fur, right?" Gamora queried, not really trying to hide the disgust in her voice.

"So?" Quill shrugged again "It's not like he has fleas. Besides, I don't see you complaining when he cooks."

"That is because the alternative is letting you perform what you insist is cooking. I do not wish to overtake my poison purification implant." Gamora replied tartly.

"I like Quill's cooking!" complained Drax.

"Thank you Drax!" Quill gave Gamora a smug look and nodded.

"You are welcome. It provides a excellent challenge for my digestive system to overcome." the warrior expounded.

Quill was spared any reprisal for his unfounded self-satisfaction when the communication channel bleeped into life, broadcasting Rocket's voice into the cockpit "Rocket to Milano, respond."

A relieved Quill opened the channel "Milano to Rocket, reading you loud and clear. How's everything over there?"

"Oh hi Mr Jackass Who Had Me Stuck In A Box Of Manure! Everything's fine; total system control. I've managed to get the vomiting from my odour down to about once every ten minutes instead of every five, so that's progress..." The channel's quality was high enough to not lose any part of Rocket's sarcasm.

Quill rolled his eyes, having been expecting the tirade. "Rocket, we went over this. You and Groot were the only species types their scanners wouldn't have on file and we need to get you inside with something organic that would shield your implants and stop the guard looking too closely. Besides, we already had that fertiliser just lying around from the forestry agency..."

"Yeah yeah, fine. I'm still kicking you in the balls next time I see you though. You're cleared to dock." Rocket snarled then closed the channel.

In spite of the imminent threat to his testicles, Quill smiled as he fired up the engines and began to pilot them towards the asteroid warehouse. The waiting was almost over. It was almost within his grasp...


	3. Dancing with the bones of my buried past

It takes a certain kind of obstinance to be angry at logic, Drax pondered. Weaponry, particularly weaponry as large, explosive or otherwise volatile as the central storage inventory had suggested, should not be stored centrally. To do otherwise was to invite misfortune, either through accident or the cunning tactics of an enemy. A detonation in a central location could trigger a catastrophic chain of events that would destroy the entire structure. By placing the weapon stockpile further out within the labyrinthian tunnels and vaults that had been carved into this asteroid, the likelihood of such a total cataclysm was vastly reduced. Yes, this furthered the time to reach it from the main hub, but that was a logically acceptable trade. 

And yet Rocket insisted on complaining about it. A lot. 

This was not anything new. It had not taken long into the travels that followed the loss of his home and the death of his wife and child for Drax to realise that almost every other species in the galaxy loved to hear itself talk. Whereas he only spoke when necessary, mostly either to threaten a target or gain clarification about some strange statement, so many of those he walked amongst seemed incapable of maintaining their silence. They would talk to others about the most blatantly obvious things, or to themselves for self-edification. It had been most irksome in the beginning, but as time had passed he had grown accustomed to it. This process had accelerated once he had formed his alliance with his current companions. True, Gamora seemed no more likely to start a conversation than he, and Groot's speech remained so impenetrable as to be irrelevant (Rocket had claimed, one drunken evening, that the key to it was listening to breathing patterns, but he had made no headway with that), but Quill and the small furry beast talked more enough to compensate. Now he found the babble strangely comforting, and so he allowed Rocket's tirade, which had by this point moved from the length of the journey to the apparent unfairness of Quill having donned some form of armoured genital protection before The Milano had docked, to wash over him as it reverberated around the access tunnel bored into the asteroid. 

If nothing else, it distracted from Rocket's odour. 

In time, they came to the large bulkhead door emblazoned with the words 'Arms Storage'. Rocket had taken the liberty of setting a data hijack program loose into the facility's mainframe while waiting for them to arrive, so it took a simple press of one digit on the keypad beside the door for the grinding of metal to start, signifying unlocking. Almost unwillingly, the door slide open, revealing the treasures that lay beyond, and what treasures they were... 

His grumbling ceased, Rocket let out a low whistle of approval, and while not as knowledgable concerning projectiles, Drax couldn't help but agree with his assessment. Guns of all shapes and sizes stood neatly in racks, row upon row filling the not inconsiderable space of the storage room. Metal crates were likewise orderly arranged, their warning logos making glorious promises for their potential for destruction. The pair entered, both looking around almost reverently at the contents. Drax felt a fresh surge of hope. Whatever Quill's true reason for this plan of his, for it seemed quite plain to him that the Terran was not being totally forthcoming as to why this place was his target, this room surely contained the means to his own ultimate aim; his final retribution. 

"These would be sufficient?" Drax glanced down at Rocket, who seemed to be almost vibrating in excitement at the sight of all this hardware. 

"Oh yeah..." The rodent (Drax could not seem to shake using that term for his friend in his head, even though he knew how it upset him.) sounded almost far away as he took everything in, as though in a beautiful dream. "Pretty damn sure I can fix up something from in here to kill a Titan." 

"Thanos is more formidable than any other of his kind." Drax cautioned. He had almost lost his chance at revenge upon Ronan through his own impatience and overconfidence. He did not intend to make the same mistake again. 

"Maybe, but he ain't ever met me, has he?" Rocket looked up him with a sharp-toothed grin of supreme confidence. "Trust me, if it moves, breathes, thinks or shits I can find a way to blow it into fun-sized chunks. Now..." He cracked his knuckles, looking about for the best place to start "...let's go shopping." 

* * *

They had just sent the first container of purloined weaponry off through the stock transport system when Rocket heard it. His ears flickered as the sound just connected with the edge of his hearing; a faint sort of bleating, an animal sound completely alien to this place of rock and metal. He wondered for a moment if he'd simply imagined it, but then he heard it again; a bit louder this time, more insistent. He shot a look at Drax, but the big lug seemed oblivious, which figured. Groot may have had better hearing than him, but he still outstripped the rest of his crewmates by a wide margin. He considered ignoring it for a moment, but the tug of curiousity proved too strong. 

He was halfway to the door by the time he called back over his shoulder to Drax. "Stay here, I gotta check something out." 

The hulking warrior's brow furrowed "There is a problem?" 

"Probably not, but I gotta check on it to be sure." He shrugged "Just keep loading the stuff I marked and I'll be right back." 

Padding from the room, Rocket turned left, following his ears a good hundred metres or so until he came to the next door along, a far less robust affair than its neighbour. Having simply reconfigured all the door locks rather than pick out any in particular, it once again took a single button press to set the door in motion. What was on the other side was somewhat unexpected. 

Cattle filled the room, smallish herbivores of about a dozen or so different species crammed up together in pens. The whole place stank of faeces and fear so badly Rocket could hardly believe he hadn't smelt it up until now. The bleating only increased as he approached them, the animals agitated as this strange new creature drew near. Casting his gaze about, he could see no sign explaining what the livestock was here for. It simply didn't make sense. Farming wasn't illegal, so why would you need an illegal supply route for farm animals? True, some planets banned non-synthetic meat produce, either for ethical reasons or fears of contamination, but if you were planning on smuggling in meat than surely it made more sense, economically if nothing else, to slaughter off-world and then bring the finished product in. 

It was after a few more moment pondering that another possibility crossed Rocket's mind. His blood turned cold as he locked eyes with the nearest of the animals, something wooly with a ring of stubby horns around the dome of its head. It surveyed him with big brown eyes, dully oblivious. 

* * *

Patience was a key part of assassination. You had to be prepared to wait for as long as it took for the target to be in the optimal position, ready at any moment to make the strike. Gamora had been very good at assassination, and thus was very good at being patient. 

This did not stop her getting bored. 

It made logical sense that someone stay behind in the central security room. Someone had to watch in case the next shift arrived early. Someone had to make sure there weren't automated countermeasures that Rocket's override program might have missed. Someone had to see to it that their newly acquired prisoner didn't free himself; though that task was achieved by swivelling the chair around and scowling at the man every time he so much as fidgeted. 

Drax had been insistent that he collect the weaponry, since it was mostly for his benefit, and Rocket had to go with him since he'd be the one actually constructing it and would know what components were a priority. Gamora harboured doubts that even given their smallest compatriot's flair for weapons crafting there was anything here that could actually kill Thanos, but she would not begrudge Drax attempting to claim his vengeance on the one behind Ronan. After all, Thanos doubtless wished to punish her for her betrayal. She, and therefore her friends, would not truly be safe while he still lived.

Quill, meanwhile, had accessed the computer system, checked something on the internal maps, and had abruptly stated that he had located the 'motherlode' and would be handling the retrieval of that on his own. Her demands to know what a 'motherlode' was and why he was only just mentioning it now had proved fruitless, mainly because he'd turned off his comms and switched on that damned portable music device. This had left her to stay behind, by virtue of being the only person everyone could understand if there was something they needed to be warned about, and Groot to loot as much as possible from the main vault, a task he had adamantly insisted he was capable of doing despite his reduced stature. 

She was turning the chair back around from her third scowl at the bound Solomon when her comms chirped to life. 

"Gamora, it's Rocket. Need you to check something for me. There's livestock in the area next to the weapons storage; I need to know where it's going." 

Another part of assassination was being good at reading people, picking up any clues to future actions from their appearance or movements or speech. Gamora could tell just from those two sentences that something was wrong with Rocket. The usual surliness was there, but it seemed strangely flat and was mixed with something she'd never seen from him before: panic. That was extremely disconcerting. 

Her fingers danced across the interface, bringing up records cracked open by the override. It took only a few moments to find the relevant information. 

"The animals are all marked down as testing material. Buyer's anonymous but there's a destination listed; somewhere called Halfworld." 

* * *

Rocket froze, staring into the animal's eyes. He could swear he saw familiar glints in the reflections on the dark surface; the way the light would catch the blades just before they began their work. He could feel the ghost of the agony they had brought shiver through each of the scars they had left him. His breath hitched as the memory of every experiment, every vivisection, came rushing back. The animal simply continued to stare at him, as though unaware he was looking at his future while his future saw his past.


	4. Good luck walks and bullshit flies

_"__I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you__."_

As they had approached Knowhere for the very first time, the awe that Peter Quill had felt witnessing the severed head of an immeasurably ancient and powerful being used as a mining colony and hive of scum and villainy had been tinged with the sadness that never again would he get to hear 'Moonage Daydream' with such appropriately otherworldly visuals. That fact was rather being driven home now, as he strode down the tunnels of the asteroid warehouse, the uniform smooth bored rock a bland companion to the voice of David Bowie. Well, if you wanted to get technical about it, the voice of Ziggy Stardust. 

_"__I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you__."_

His eyes flicked down to the scanner in his hand. 100 metres to the gap in the floorplan. 

_"__Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a pink monkey bird__,_

_And I'm busting up my brains for the words__"_

Most people were dismissive of thievery. They viewed it, and those adept at it, with contempt. In some ways this was understandable, since no-one likes having their possessions taken from them, and certainly there were too many thieves who spent their time hitting the easy marks, a category that often overlapped with those who couldn't afford to lose what they had. However, if you took a step back and viewed the whole thing objectively, you could appreciate everything involved in the art of theft, the skill and the knowledge it took to perform. For example, the untrained eye would have looked at the drawn layout of this facility and ignored the patch of unused space on the central ring, 2nd floor. They would have assumed it was an area the designer had left unused for one reason or the other. 

_"__Keep your 'lectric eye on me__,__ babe__._

_Put your ray gun to my head__._

_Press your space face close to mine, love__."_

Rule 1 of not having your stuff stolen: don't leave it lying around in the open. Lock it up, the more securely, the better. What was the most secure place to store something? It was not, as he had answered when asked this by Yondu all those years ago when he had begun training him to become a Ravager, an electrified vault with a scorpion inside it (that had earned him a clip round the ear, though Peter suspected that was mostly because Yondu hadn't known what a scorpion was). 

_"__Freak out in a moonage daydream__,__ oh yeah!__"_

The most secure storage is where people don't even realise there's anything being stored. Like, say, a room that doesn't exist on any maps, three floors away from an ostentatiously large vault. 

_"__Don't fake it baby, lay the real thing on me__._

_The church of man, love__,_

_Is such a holy place to be__."_

Quill stopped in front of what the floorplan stubbornly insisted was dense solid rock. He passed the scanner over the area, grinning as the readings confirmed his suspicions: several inches of rock, then 2 feet of metal. He stuffed the device in his knapsack and began to feel about the wall, looking for the hidden lock. 

_"__Make me baby, make me know you really care__._

_Make me jump into the air__."_

Bingo. His finger found a suitably sized nook (or was that a cranny? He never could figure the difference between the two.) and by feel depressed a trigger, the rock face sliding away seamlessly, revealing a vault door that typified the fine balancing required when designing something that needed to be as secure as possible while remaining practically invisible. It was top of the line, a true credit to those responsible for its creation... and the sort of thing he could crack in his sleep. _Star-Lord strikes again_ he thought, with a great deal of satisfaction. 

_"__Keep your 'lectric eye on me__,__ babe__._

_Put your ray gun to my head__._

_Press your space face close to mine, love__."_

Quill knelt down, bringing himself eye-level with the primary mechanisms as he retrieved his tools. Settling himself in comfortably, he cracked his knuckles, then set to work. 

_"__Freak out in a moonage daydream__,__ oh yeah!__"_

As the song slipped into an interlude of guitar and some other instrument he'd never quite identified (some kind of messed up keyboard, perhaps?), the treacherous little voice in the back of his head that had been bugging him the last day or so piped up again. _How are you going to explain this to your friends?_ He gave his head a little shake, as though trying to throw off some buzzing insect. It wasn't going to be that big a deal. There was plenty enough other stuff here that they could grab as well. Hell, there was enough weaponry here to give them a serious leg up on that whole killing Thanos thing that Drax had his heart set on. They'd understand. 

_"__Keep your 'lectric eye on me__,__ babe__._

_Put your ray gun to my head__._

_Press your space face close to mine, love__."_

The voice would not be dissuaded. _If they're sure to understand, why not be honest with them in the first place?_ Because they would have insisted on something easier, or tell him his sources were wrong, or any number of other nitpicky little reasons. 

_"__Freak out in a moonage daydream__,__ oh__..."_

Why should he feel guilty? It wasn't like he'd lied, not really. They were hurting for units, and the work offers hadn't exactly been flooding in. He'd spent a long time formulating the plan, gathering as much information as he covertly could ever since he'd discovered what Aarzan had stashed away. Just because he hadn't told them what he personally was after... 

_"__Keep your 'lectric eye on me__,__ babe__._

_Put your ray gun__...__ to my head__._

_Press your space face close to mine, love__."_

The voice offered its retort. _What was it your mother always said about lying by omission?_ Oh that was low! Playing the mother card? What a bullshit move, even for himself. 

_"__Freak out in a moonage daydream__,__ oh yeah__."_

Quill was spared from having a full blown argument with his psyche when the lock opened with a reverberating clunk that vibrated up his arm. Smiling at a job well done, he put away his tools, standing once more and pulling the door open. 

_"__Freak out__."_

Quill stepped inside the brightly lit room, only to be immediately perplexed. All that stood within were databanks, lights blinking as they filled the room with a faint air of buzzing static. This didn't make any sense. His sources had been impeccable! 

_"F__ar out__."_

His eyes darted about the room, but there was was no extra storage space, no hidden switches to throw to reveal the cornucopia he'd been led to expect. Just a whole lot of computers... and a holo-projector in the floor. 

_"I__n out__."_

With a deep sense of foreboding, Quill removed his headphones as the projector flickered to life... 

* * *

There was something faintly absurd about the juxtaposition of the animals' soft lowing and the tension that otherwise filled the air, Gamora reflected, stilling herself to ensure she did not contribute anymore to the escalation of the situation than she already had by simply stating the obvious. 

"We. Are. Not. Leaving. Them." Rocket glowered up at her, emphasising each word as his lips pulled back into a snarl that revealed far more sharp little teeth than she had ever wanted to see. Worse than the teeth were his eyes though, filled with the sort of manic intensity she'd only seen in those fuelled by their own sense of righteous anger. _Ronan's_, she realised; _they're just like Ronan's_. "The guns and the money can fricking burn for all I care, we're taking them." 

"Rocket, this isn't about money. We don't have the space; not on The Milano, not on the cargo shuttle." Trying to use logic against someone driven by blind emotion was not a particularly great tactic, but the alternative did not seem any better given Rocket's nigh-on pathological dislike for sympathy. If this turned into a fight she couldn't guarantee she'd be able to win without at least severely injuring him, which would then almost certainly ensure a fight against Groot. That was an easier prospect physically, if just because he wasn't anywhere near as quick and nimble, but an even worse one emotionally. 

_And now I'm mentally evaluating how to assault my friends,_ she noted. _Thank you so much for putting me in this situation, Peter._

"There's furniture and excess supplies and all kinds of useless crap we can toss." Rocket replied, dismissing facts with a frantic wave of a paw. 

"We could strip both ships bare and there still wouldn't be enough room, and that's not even bringing up that the oxygen recyclers would burn out probably a little while before we all starved to death." Gamora sighed. She was telling him what he surely already knew given his aptitude for mechanics. He had simply reached the point where reality seemed completely malleable because he was just that damn angry. Which meant she was going to have to try the alternative argument... 

"Look, Rocket, I understand that you want to help them. I understand that you're upset..." 

His retort was just as rapid and delivered with just as much seething venom as she'd expected. "Oh you understand? Well that's just fricking perfect, isn't it? I guess I can just stop worrying about everything because you understand! Why don't you just go ahead and dazzle me with just how much understanding you have about me? Don't hold back; I could use a good laugh!" 

"I hear you at night." 

Silence took over in a heartbeat. Even the animals fell silent, moving away from them both, as though sensing that violence was imminent. Gamora could swear that Rocket was actually vibrating with anger. She tried as subtly as possible to shift her body to a position to receive an attack as he spoke, his voice quiet and almost eerie in its calmness. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." He was offering her a way out of the conversation, and she wanted to take it, but she knew she had to press on. 

"I don't sleep, Rocket; one of the... modifications Thanos had made to me. That's why I take the night watch in the cockpit. That's why I hear you in your sleep." She didn't elaborate; she didn't need to. The noise had confused her at first, the muffling of plating and bulkheads distorting sound even for her enhanced senses. She had followed it through the dark stillness of the night-cycled Milano to its source: Rocket's door. It was then she'd understood what she'd heard. He'd been screaming in his sleep. Not just screaming, in truth; there had been quieter noises, somehow worse; whimpering cries and pleas to stop. Pleas that were never answered. 

She gestured to the milling herd "They're meant for whoever did this to you, aren't they?" There was a moment, then Rocket nodded, no longer looking at her, unable to meet her gaze. In the short time she'd known him, Gamora had never seen him look so small, all his fire extinguished. She found herself wishing she could find every single person involved in his creation and tear them apart with her bare hands. 

"I am Groot?" 

They both turned around to see Groot staring at them and the assembled animals with bewilderment, a crate larger than himself in his hands, two more being pulled behind him by vines growing from his back. His expression changed the instant he saw the look in Rocket's eyes. The tree dropped the crates and hurried over to his friend, attempting to envelop him in a hug. Gamora found herself somewhat relieved as Rocket immediately started squirming him way out of the grip, paws flailing to fend off the affection like he was allergic. 

"Knock it off, will ya? I'm alright, you idiot." There was a loving tone to the admonishment. 

"I am... Groot?" Groot gave Gamora an appraising look, eyes narrowing. 

"It's not her fault, Groot. Found out all these guys are supposed to be shipped to those pricks on Halfworld." Gamora could feel the tension drain from both the air and her body. Rocket seemed to have calmed down, insofar as he could ever actually be called calm. The mention of Halfworld, conversely, caused Groot to give a splintery snarl, his bark spiking up somewhat. 

"I am Groot!" 

"Of course we're not going to let that happen! Just gotta figure out how to get them out of here..." Rocket began to cast his eyes about the expanse of the warehouse, as though expecting some large cargo transport to suddenly materialise into view. Gamora groaned inwardly, realising that Rocket was no nearer to realising the impossibility of his desires. She was about to vocalise this once again when a klaxon spring into loud, insistent life. Confused, she looked at Rocket. 

"I rigged the facility proximity sensors into the central alarm system." He explained, concern crossing his face as the animals began to scatter in panic. "Looks like we're about to have company." 

* * *

Quill's research had been thorough enough that he instantly recognised the holographic figure before him as that of Aarzan the Facilitator. Being Xandarian, he looked close enough to human to pass, especially if the humans in question were smug rich assholes. 

"Hello Mr Quill; though I suppose given you're here on business I should call you Star-Lord." spoke the projection, its voice radiating polite condescension. "As you've by now no doubt realised, I'm afraid you have been misled as to the exact nature of my private archive. I apologise for the deception, but I did need to ensure that our meeting was at a place of my choosing. As we speak, a rather large group of armed men and myself are coming to collect you. If you would be so kind as to return to the central docking area to meet us, I'd be awfully grateful." 

Pissed off, Quill gave the figure the finger "Yeah, because that's going to happen, motherfu..." 

"Having given you the space for a colourful and doubtless obscene response," the recording continued, "I should point out that if you do not do so, we will destroy your vessel and kill anyone who has accompanied you on this venture. I look forward to meeting you in person shortly." 

The projector shut down, leaving Quill to fume in private, his only accompaniment the smug sound of the voice in the back of his head. _Told you so, dumbass._


	5. Load up on guns, bring your friends

"I have to say, Mr Quill, I am pleasantly surprised. I was honestly expecting to have to track you down throughout this facility." Just as Peter had feared, Aarzan's voice was every bit as punchably smug in person as it had been on the holographic recording; more so even. He did his best to keep his face bland, however, as he stepped into view in the cavernous storeroom, keeping his hands nice and raised as he did so. The distance was enough that the Facilitator had to almost shout to be heard, which rather reduced the chance of someone deciding to summarily blast him, but no point giving them a reason right off the bat. Since the man was obviously in love with the sound of his own voice, there was no reason not to let him run his mouth. It bought Quill time to try and think of a way out of this mess. 

Not that he hadn't been trying to do that already, of course. The instant his inner critic had finished pointing out what a dumbass he was, he had gotten on the comms with the others. Or rather, he had tried to, only to find that all frequencies were now overridden with some kind of white noise. At best guess, the facility's computer systems had some kind of fail safe, either timed or remotely activated, that could override whatever it was Rocket had done to hijack them in the first place. All he'd gotten were three messages from Gamora, missed calls from when he'd on his way to the hidden vault, listening to his walkman. The first two rather pointedly asked where he was headed so that she could better alert him of any potential issues. The third flat out demanded he come back to central area, as apparently something was happening with Rocket. Quill spared a moment to wonder if that was in any way related to the large number of herd animals that were ambling back and forth amidst this stand-off. He decided it was a mystery that could remain unresolved for now. 

The more urgent mystery was where exactly his friends had gone. The Milano was still docked exactly where they had left it, so they hadn't simply abandoned him... 

_Not that anyone would blame them if they did..._ chipped in the voice in the back of his head. 

... and given the ramp was down, it seemed unlikely they were hiding aboard; they would have been found by now (he was really going to have to look into getting those smuggling compartments reinstalled; funny how the Nova Corps had removed that feature when they'd rebuilt the ship...). It didn't seem likely Aarzan had found them anywhere, in fact, given there was no sign of a struggle: no blood, no burn marks, no bodies, no-one shredded up from sharp little claws and teeth or the wooden equivalents thereof. Which meant they were laying low somewhere else, either waiting for him to show up so they could assist him or for the whole thing to blow over and then be on their merry way. Fingers crossed for the former then. 

"Well I didn't want to give you the false impression I was actually afraid of you. God knows what kind of problems you'd have if your ego got any bigger. " Quill replied, allowing what he hoped would be an infuriating smirk to slip into his features. In truth, he honestly wasn't afraid. After facing down an genocidal zealot armed with an infinite power source that predated all creation, not much tends to phase you. What he mainly was was curious. Since he was stalling until a solution presented itself, he may as well get a few questions answered. 

"Given what I have heard of you, Mr Quill, the irony of that statement is almost staggering to behold."Aarzan's face bore the smile of someone indulging a wayward child out of the generosity of knowing they could cease doing so the moment they pleased. Clearly he was confident the balance of power was in his favour. Time to upset that particular apple cart... 

With a speed honed by years spent at the fine art of pickpocketing and sleight of hand, Quill dipped his right hand into his pocket, bringing it back up as twenty diverse guns opposite were raised to bear on him, the air filling with the building hum of energy weapons warming and the metallic clack of those preferring solid projectiles removing safetys (one alien, who Quill could inwardly only marvel at for looking essentially like a giant preying mantis, had what appeared to be rocket launchers mounted on each shoulder). Instead of being empty now, however, his hand contained a glowing ball of light. 

"I assume you guys are all familiar with plasma orbs, right?" Quill asked, letting the smirk have free run of his face. "Perfect for lighting up whatever hellhole you may be removing valuables from, great in all weather conditions, lightweight, fits right in the palm of your hand; with just the slight drawback of it instantly incinerating anything in a two foot radius if it breaks." 

"And?" replied Aarzan, in a voice that sounded just a hint too nonchalant. "Even if you were to throw it at myself and my men, you would be gunned down in an instant." 

"Very true, which is why what I actually plan on doing with it is turning myself to ash if you make the slightest wrong move." He tightened his grip on the orb, hearing it creak. For a moment he was terrified he'd guessed wrong, that this had all been leading somewhere entirely different. But then he saw the panic dart across the crime boss' face. Score one for Star-Lord's powers of deduction. 

"Which isn't what you want at all, is it?" He continued. "If you wanted me dead, you'd have just hired some goon to shoot me or plant a bomb on my ship or something. You want me alive, or at the very least as a fresh corpse. Since you went to all the trouble of finding out the one thing I'd want the most, then leaking the information to me through reliable sources, I'm guessing someone offered you a whole lot of units to get a hold of me." 

"Very perceptive, Mr Quill." The original smugness of Aarzan's tone had now been replaced by a barely concealed annoyance. "I am named the Facilitator for a very good reason: I can acquire whatever someone wants if they are willing to pay the correct price. The price for you was very high indeed." 

"Ah, money and ego both on the line at once; always a fun combination." The smirk had broadened into a wolfish grin. There was nothing more intoxicating than the adrenaline rush that came from antagonising someone who held your life in their hands; performing the high wire balancing act of pushing them just far enough to get them frustrated and sloppy without driving them over the edge into simply crushing you like a bug. As these sort of situations went, this wasn't quite up there with challenging an all powerful lunatic to a dance contest, but it certainly wasn't a bad runner up. A danger junkie gets their fix where they can. "Here's the funny thing; I've had this information for a while, which means someone wanted to get hold of me long before I stopped Ronan. Why?" 

"I deal in anonymity, Mr Quill. I cannot disclose my clients' names because I do not know them. As for why they want you... well, I cannot imagine an organisation such as a Ravager fleet is particularly watertight when it comes to information..." Aarzan inclined his head, silently goading Quill to make the obvious conclusion. 

"They know what I am." Quill's grip on the plasma orb shifted. If someone wanted him alive after finding out that his father was some kind of ancient all powerful being, he couldn't imagine it was for anything fun. He suddenly had visions of men in surgical masks wielding knives and saws and syringes, the sort of stuff he'd previously only thought about on the occasions they hadn't managed to get the bottle off Rocket before he reached the maudlin stage of drunk. Self-immolation was starting to look less like a bluff and more of a viable exit strategy. 

Aarzan gave the kind of shrug that generally translated as a neutral acceptance of fact. "Given you were in the middle of a Ravager fleet, simply kidnapping you wasn't much of an option; too risky, too obvious. I needed you to come to me. So I had my men do some digging, and lo and behold they found just the right thing to convince you to raid this facility. The falsified information was leaked, security discreetly lowered, and here we are. Now, put the orb down and we can get you prepped for transport without any needless violence." 

Something caught Quill's eye. He blinked, confirming to himself that he was indeed seeing what he thought he was. He returned his gaze to Aarzan. "What makes you think I don't view death as a preferable alternative to getting cut open by a bunch of creepy weirdos?" 

"Because a man willing to chance as ludicrous a plan as dancing to distract a being capable of destroying an entire world in a heartbeat is not simply going to give up. You believe you will find a way to escape your fate, and will continue to look for that way for as long as you can." Aarzan inclined his head, appearing almost amused. "As long as I deliver you and am paid for such, I do not care if you subsequently escape my client or not." 

Quill's eyes flicked away again, then back. "That's nice, but I could just escape now and save us both the hassle." 

"And how precisely would you do that?" Aarzan's eyes narrowed. "You are alone; abandoned by your friends, surrounded by my men." 

"And some sheep." 

Aarzan treated Quill to an especially withering look at that. 

"Hey, don't blame me! I didn't set them loose!" Again, his eyes shifted back and forth 

"What are you looking at!?" demanded Aarzan, his annoyance clearly mounting. 

Quill's response was a diffident shrug. "Laser sight on the bug guy's forehead." 

Several things happened at once. Everyone looked at the giant mantis. The mantis' multifaceted eyes swivelled in an attempt to look at his own forehead. There was the bark of a large calibre rifle firing. 

Then the mantis' head exploded into a shower of green gore. 

The rocket launchers mounted on his shoulders launched in a death spasm, missiles arcing out and slamming into giant shelving units, sending fragments of metal and god knows what else flying. His comrades opened fire on the only thing they could see, which happened to be Quill. Having anticipated this, Quill had flung himself sideways, activating the thrust packs on his boots. He rocketed into cover, gaining himself a split second to breathe easy as shots spanged off stock, before he collided with someone who'd been trying to flank him. 

Head ringing, Quill pulled himself up, only to see the man (well, he thought it was a man; with some species, especially ones as hairy as this, it was very hard to tell) had regained his bearings first. Kneeling, he raised a pistol to Quill's head, opening his mouth with the look of someone about to deliver a pithy line to their latest victim. Before he could deliver the words, vine-like tendrils latched onto his head and gave it a savage turn, a vicious ~snap!~ reverberating through the air before he flopped down. Quill's gaze followed the retreating vines back to a satisfied looking Groot. 

"I am Groot." said Groot, as pithily as a plant could. 

* * *

It was theoretically possible that, had he the capacity to feel anything bar bloodlust and excitement in the heat of combat, Drax might have felt sorry for the men as he flung his knives into two of them before spearing a third with his body, knocking a further two sprawling. Taken by surprise, scattering and panicking, they were so outmatched it was almost no fun. Almost, but still enough that Drax roared with laughter as he dodged a clumsy swing with some kind of shock stick, grabbed the assailant and slammed him down onto the floor spine first. 

His hopes that Quill's plan would descend into some form of violence had come to fruition when, realising that Rocket had disappeared and he had no further idea of what weapons to acquire (unsurprisingly, the small furry one's list of acquisition had covered the largest, most potent devices present, and there weren't any knives), he had returned to the central area where they had arrived. He had found a large number of cattle animals running around in a panic as a klaxon sounded, while an agitated Rocket was rifling through the first assignment of weapons they'd sent up from storage. Gamora, returning from the ship with Groot, having apparently just stashed a large amount of purloined currency and valuables, had explained that the noise was signalling the arrival of enemies. A communications jam had activated, preventing her from conversing with Quill, but she strongly suspected that this entire situation was a trap that had been sprung on them. Since Quill had been the one with the information, it seemed most likely that the trap was specifically intended for him. Therefore she planned for them to lie in wait, then ambush this new enemy when the time was right. Drax tended to dislike ambushes, feeling there was less enjoyment in an unprepared foe, but a fight was a fight. Besides, he could appreciate the irony of surprising those who had sought to surprise them. 

Booting a rising foe in the head hard enough to put him out of the fight, Drax took a moment to take stock. Above the frantic bleating of the animals running this way and that, he could hear the meaty ~thwum!~ of the phased plasma cannon Rocket now wielded, having been forced to abandon the sniper rifle he'd begun the fight with in his leap from the collapsing shelving unit he'd used as a nest. Any momentary worry he had for the little beast was allayed by both Rocket's delighted snarls and the corresponding screams from his targets. Another force was moving to flank him, but before Drax could move to intercept them, Quill strode out from wherever his jet propelled leap had taken him, a gun in each hand spitting bolts of energy. 

Retrieving his bloodied knives, Drax cast about to find a remaining foe. Almost lost amidst the chaos, he spotted the frantic cluster of Aarzan's bodyguards attempting to extract their charge. Grinning at his good fortune, he set towards them, but he got no more than two steps forward before Gamora appeared before the group, moving from cover with such speed it seemed as though she had materialised from thin air. In the blink of an eye her sword had pierced through one man's chest, while another was kicked in the stomach so hard he practically somersaulted forward as he went down. Another lashed out, trying to club the assassin in the head with his gun. He lost his arm for that. The last bodyguard turned to run and had his hamstring cut. Four victories in the space of four heartbeats. As much as Drax liked his compatriots, it vexed him that their combat prowess limited how much combat e himself saw. Still, there was something to be said for the encouraging spirit of competition... 

* * *

The firing now ceased, Quill sauntered over to Aarzan, or at least as close to sauntered as one could while trying not to slip on what was the inevitable by-product of sticking cattle in the middle of a gunfight. The crime boss stood stock still, generally the best course of action when one of the most dangerous people in the universe is holding the point of a sword still wet with your bodyguards' blood to your throat. 

"So, rethinking the whole 'selling me' thing now?" Quill enquired with faux innocence. 

"As I'm busy here, can someone please hit Quill around the head?" Gamora asked the room at large, not taking her eyes from Aarzan. 

"Wait, wha... OW!" Quill yelped, rubbing the back of his head at the sting of what felt like a wooden ruler slapping the back of his skull. He shot a hurt look down Groot. 

"I am Groot." The tree shrugged, gesturing towards Gamora. 

"Okay, okay, so I get that you're kinda mad about what's happened..." Quill placated, rather thankful that both Gamora's sword and glower were focused elsewhere. 

"That would be an understatement." Came the icy retort. Aarzan opened his mouth to attempt to join the conversation, but shut it again as the sword was pressed against him that little bit more forcefully. 

"Which is fair, but I can expl... OW!" That one had hurt a lot more. "Dude!" Quill remonstrated at Drax, who simply blinked in response. 

"Gamora wanted us to hit you. It seemed fair." 

"Do I at least get the chance to... OH COME ON!" A sharp blow had just rifled into his shin, nearly causing him to fall over a sheep. 

"What? Everyone else was getting to hit you; I didn't want to miss out." said Rocket, looking immensely satisfied. 

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted..." Quill punctuated his complaint with a sour look at Rocket, who replied with a smirk and an obscene gesture. "...do I at least get a chance to explain?" 

"You want to explain?" Gamora finally turned the glare on Quill, strong enough to make him flinch. "Start talking..."


	6. Regrets, I've had a few

As awkward silences went, the one that greeted Quill's revelation was by far and away the most excruciating he'd ever had to suffer through. The utter absence of any vocal response seemed to reverberate throughout the Milano with more impact than the loudest shout. Nervously, his eyes jumped from face to face, looking for a clue as to what came next. Drax looked perplexed, as though trying to unravel some mental knot. Rocket was fidgeting in barely restrained... well, he wasn't sure what emotion it was, though he suddenly had a clear mental picture of the raccoon grabbing Groot and using him as a bludgeon to wail on him. The tree, for his part, was also studying faces, looking thoughtful. Gamora's expression was calm, bordering on blank. That was a worrying look on someone who had spent a good portion of their life as a living weapon, suggesting calculations were being made as to the easiest method of dispatch. Worse though was how guilty it made him feel. Despite years of experience at disappointing women (emotionally, not in the other way, thank you very much), he never quite got used to the fallout. 

It was Gamora who spoke first. 

"Just so that we're clear, you're saying that you spent over a year planning a heist on a facility owned by a powerful and influential crime boss solely because you believed he possessed a collection of audio cassette tapes from Terra?" The words came out with the wince-inducing air of someone who was having difficulty believing events had led to this sentence actually having to be uttered. Quill's guilty feeling increased, making him feel more and more like a dog being forced to study the crap he'd just taken on the living room carpet. 

"You see, you say it out loud like that and it sounds kinda stupid..." He rubbed the back of his head, cringing at the lameness of his reply. He was almost thankful that no-one was given time to dwell on it, as Rocket's restraint finally snapped and he collapsed into hysterical laughter, doubling over, tiny furry fist hammering the table as his whole body shook with the force of it. Groot gave his companion a perplexed sideways glance and shuffled away slightly. Drax took a moment to study Rocket, then looked at Quill. 

"I believe his laughter is genuine." 

"Thanks for that, Drax. I would have been haunted by uncertainty if you hadn't given me that staggering insight." Quill scowled, not exactly overjoyed at the reception he was getting. 

Drax looked confused at the response. "That seems an extreme response to not knowing the authenticity of someone's laughter." 

Quill sighed. "That was sarcasm. I was being sarcastic." 

"Ah, a way of lying." Drax nodded. 

"Now there's a surprise..." Gamora added icily. 

"That was also sarcasm." Drax noted cheerfully. 

"I didn't lie!" Quill retorted, ignoring Drax's analysis. "We needed money, we couldn't get work, I knew this place would have other stuff worth taking. I just didn't say why I had wanted to go there in the first place." 

"Even though I asked you that. Which means you lied." Gamora pointed out "I want to know why." 

"Why?" Quill gestured with both hands over at Rocket, who was just about getting himself back under control. "You would have laughed me out of the room, regardless of the plan, and we'd be back to square one." 

"So you didn't trust us?" Gamora asked, face still carefully blank. 

"Can you honestly tell me you would have agreed if you'd known what I was after?" Quill waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming, his friends looking at each other. "Yeah, that's what I thought." 

He held the 'Awesome Mix Vol. 1' tape, having used it earlier to explain exactly what he'd been after. "I left Earth when I was 10, with no way of getting back, having just watched my mom die. This tape was all I had to remember her, to remember my home, by. I just..." He trailed off, sitting down and slouching over the table. "Part of me knew it was impossible and stupid. I just wanted so badly to have another piece of home." 

There was a long silence, and then Gamora leant across the table and placed a hand on his arm. Her touch was warm and, to Quill's surprise, so was her voice. 

"Peter, we've each of us lost our homes. If you'd just told us this from the start we would have understood." 

Quill managed a weak smile and placed his hand on hers. "I'm a jackass." 

Gamora replied with a smile of her own. "Yes, but you're our jackass. Just be honest with us in future." 

"I have a question." rumbled Drax. "What is..." 

Quill pre-empted him. "It's a donkey." 

"Oh." Drax looked him over. "I do not see how you resemble an equine of any type." 

"Ask my exes." Quill smirked as Gamora rolled her eyes. 

"Oh please." snorted Rocket. "I saw you during processing on the Kyln, you're not that impressive." 

It took the raccoon a moment to realise that everyone was now staring at him. "What? Too much information?" 

* * *

Every crime has clean up. There are loose ends to be tied away, else someone is liable to tug on them, at which point you're in for more hassle than you can be bothered with and potentially quite a bit of trouble. It doesn't have to be the neatest job in the universe, just secure enough to ensure whoever looks into the matter is disinclined to take things particularly far. Of course, some crimes require more tidying up after than others... 

"Denarian Dey, nice to see you again. What can I do for our favourite corps man?" Quill smiled, leaning back in his chair and putting down the implements he'd been cleaning his blaster with. 

Dey smiled too, wearing the look of a man who knew he was playing a predetermined game but had no objection to not winning. "You tell me, Peter. Had a couple of strange incidents recently I thought you might be able to shed some light on." 

"Anything I can do to help out." Quill fought the urge to lean back further in his chair. It wouldn't do to look too nonchalant. Or fall on his ass. 

"We had a report of an old cargo shuttle being stolen a couple of days. Then we had a report that it had been returned, now containing twice its units worth in antique jewellery." 

Quill gave a shrug of calculated casualness. "Shuttle rental places have such complicated paperwork these days. Sounds like someone was willing to pay over the odds to avoid the hassle." 

"Uh huh. Then there's the matter of a large number of farm animals being left at a wildlife sanctuary in the middle of the night, along with a sizeable donation for the organisation running it. We traced the animals back to a series of large scale rustling we've been investigating over the past few months." 

"Clearly there are some dedicated critter lovers out there." Quill said, nodding sagely. In truth, he was rather unsure as to what exactly the deal with the cattle was. All he knew was that it involved Rocket, but his attempt at questioning the fuzzball about it had been halted before it began. He might not be able to understand what Groot said, but frantic gestures about a particular line of questioning being unwise were universal enough for him to grasp. 

"Clearly. And of course there's the small matter of Aarzan the Facilitator being found tied up in a previously radar-blocked asteroid facility, surrounded by billions of units worth of black market goods and about a dozen dead bodies. Apparently someone took it upon themselves to bring down a man we've been unable to capture for years and leave plenty of evidence for us to convict him with." 

Quill donned his best look of wide-eyed surprise. "Wow! That guy's supposed the top crime boss in this sector! Sounds like someone did the galaxy a big favour. He say who it was?" 

"No. He's surprisingly reticent on that. Almost as if he were worried about reprisals if he talked." Dey replied carefully. Aarzan's silence was unsurprising to Quill. Gamora had made it quite clear to the man what she would do if they were implicated, not to mention the simple fact his previous clients made decide to take actions for their own security if there was the implication he was loose-tongued at all. 

Quill gave another shrug "Well, I'd love to be able to help, Dey, but there's nothing I can tell you about any of that. We're pretty busy here with our entirely legitimate enterprises." 

"Right, right." nodded the Denarian. "After all, we had that whole talk about how you can't break the law anymore." 

"Exactly! Great talk, with the whole spine removal question and all. We're following it to the letter." 

There was a moment of silence, then Dey smiled once more and shook his head. "Alright Peter. If anything comes to you, you have my number." 

"Of course, Dey. My love to the family." Quill grinned, holding in his sigh of relief until he was the call was terminated. Setting himself over his part-dismantled blaster once more, he had just raised tools once more when there was a knock at the door. 

"Come in, it's unlocked." 

The door slide open and Rocket's head poked round the frame. 

"Hey Quill, you got a minute?" 

Quill swivelled round to face the raccoon. "Sure man, what's up?" 

Rocket padded in, fur damp from yet another shower, having been insistent that he still smelt of the manure he'd been smuggled in. Quill worried that he was looking to inflict the earlier threatened groin assault and began to mentally calculate if he could grab his protective cup from across the room in time. 

"I've been going over the computer data we pulled from the warehouse." he gesticulated with an interface pad clutched in a paw. 

Quill blinked. "We pulled computer data?" 

Rocket rolled his eyes "For frick's sake, I explained it when I told you about the program I used to hijack their computers! It set up backdoor access and I ran an autominer to gather anything that fit a criteria for usefulness or value!" 

Quill pointed to himself "Dumb hairless monkey." Then he pointed at Rocket "Genius fuzzy guy. You need to dumb it down for me, remember?" 

"Fine, fine, you moron." Rocket sighed "We stole stuff off their computers. Potential targets, evidence on stuff the Nova Corps would love to hear about, and something else..." Furry digits ran over the pad, and then suddenly music began to play over the ship's speakers. 

Music Quill had never heard before. 

Music without the faint echo of autotranslation. 

Quill looked at Rocket in mystified disbelief, the raccoon replying with a little grin. 

"Radio-waves travel. Turns out Aarzan had receivers pointed at Terra for years to collect this stuff. Guess he really did have an interest in this stuff, he just lied about the format." 

In truth, Quill was barely listening to Rocket at this point. The music had his attention: guitars and drums and an English voice (not Bowie; rougher, less refined). A broad smile colonised his face. 

"I was able to compress it down to fit on our systems with no quality loss. Not sure yet how much there is yet, but it looks like weeks' worth. Whatcha think?" 

Quill stood. "Rocket, I'm gonna have to hug you now." 

"Wait, what?" Rocket's bewilderment at the response stopped him reacting until Quill had seized him, the loving grip too tight for his struggles to break as he acked and squirmed. "Would you knock that off! I have a reputation to uphold!" 

"Are we hugging now?" The query drew both Quill and Rocket's gazes to the doorway, where a baffled Drax stared at them. 

"No!" growled Rocket. 

"Yes." said Quill at the same time, still grinning. 

Drax considered both statements for a minute, then walked over and wrapped his arms around them both. "I like hugs." 

"I hate you both." said Rocket, with more resignation than venom. 

"You're all idiots." Gamora stated from the doorway, having apparently decided to investigate the source of the new noise, making no attempt to hide her own smile, either from her face or her voice. 

"I am Groot." added Groot, who went over and locked himself around Quill's legs, the group all together as the song exhorted them not to look back in anger. At that moment, anger was the furthest thing from their minds. 

* * *

_Wow._

_This is the first time I've ever managed to finish any non-academic writing project. I am a painfully slow writer at times (as the gap between chapters attests) and prone to backsliding and plain old giving up. That this has been finished is down to the folks who gave their favourites, watches and comments. My thanks to each and every one of you. If you enjoyed this then keep your eyes peeled and spread the love._

_-BloodiedFox_


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